


Dog Days

by iiscos



Category: Dress Up! Time Princess (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, canon-typical historical inaccuracies, fersen is turned into a dog and lafa unknowingly adopts him, follows 2-8 ending(s), not any more (or less) gay than a servant's resolve, not exactly crack despite the premise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: Fersen led Lafayette to the alley where his muddied clothes lay scattered and abandoned. He located his hat and attempted to bury his dog head into it, to show the Marquis that he had, in fact, been transformed into a dog. Lafayette quickly removed the hat, and beneath his aloof exterior, Fersen could catch the storm of distress brewing. The Marquis then knelt beside the Count, urging him to remain still with a gentle, yet commanding, grip on his neck.“We mustn’t tamper with the evidence,” he declared aloud, as if addressing Fersen directly despite believing him a dog. “I’m afraid that something terrible has happened to Count Fersen, and you might be our only witness.”
Relationships: Marquis de Lafayette & Count Fersen (Dress Up! Time Princess), Marquis de Lafayette/Count Fersen (Dress Up! Time Princess), background Marie Antoinette/Louis XVI (Dress Up! Time Princess)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Dog Days

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this fic for nearly a month but finally found time to complete it over the holidays. Written because of all the dog Fersen edits thrown around on Discord, but despite the premise, the story is actually quite wholesome.

The young Swedish Count Axel von Fersen awoke to sunlight scorching his eyelids and the foul stench of urban decay filling his lungs. His bones ached in protest when he tried to move, but his bodily pain was only a faint afterthought to the feeling of knives piercing his temples. Soon, an urgent need to vomit jolted him upright, just in time for him to spill the contents of his stomach onto the cobblestone rather than his crumpled, muddied clothes.

Fersen forced himself to sit—wanting, _begging_ for velvet darkness to wipe away his consciousness once more. This had to be the worst hangover of his life, his entire world constricting to nothing but agony and flayed nerves. It was an effort to remain alive, as the young Count pinched closed his eyes and tallied the miserable seconds that passed, until his wits finally knitted themselves together long enough for him to realize that _something_ was _severely_ off.

First of all, his clothes no longer fit, sliding off his body and pooling around him in ripples of fabric and leather. And then, when he hauled himself to stand, he learned that he simply _couldn’t_ —or at least, not for long without the need to fall back on all fours.

 _All fours,_ his brain processed sluggishly, as he stared down at where his hands should be, only to find a pair of dark paws in their place. And when he opened his mouth—instead of a human scream of utter terror—the wail of a tortured hound tore from his throat and reverberated off the dank alley walls.

~~

Fersen tried to recall the events of the prior night that might explain _why_ he was transformed into a dog.

Six months had gone by since the passing of the reforms, and the King and Queen had held a grand banquet in celebration of their progress. While many changes still required more time to take their effect, the shared vision of a more liberal and fair France was irrefutably edging closer to reality, and that in itself was reason enough to rejoice.

Fersen had reunited with the Queen in the palace gardens, with the intention of swearing his loyalty.

“In the past, I wanted to keep you all to myself,” he confessed, “But now the whole of France wants you. Do you find me pitiful?”

Beneath the soft glow of the harvest moon, Marie bowed her head, saying nothing despite the look of warm affection in her eyes. Those strikingly beautiful eyes had once followed only him, and Fersen remembered how they had filled with tears at the news of his departure to the New World. But time and distance had cooled her desperate, impassioned longing, and although her fondness for him remained, Fersen could tell that her heart no longer beat in time with his. Marie was now the beloved Queen of France, who no longer followed the King out of duty but stood beside him with reverence and love.

He had long accepted that he would never be truly worthy of her hand, so the sting of disappointment really shouldn’t hurt him so.

Rather than returning home after the banquet, Fersen stopped by a tavern instead and contented himself with drowning his sorrows in whiskey. It had been late into the night, and only one other patron remained at the bar, an elderly man with wispy white hair and several gleaming, silver teeth. Fersen offered to buy him a drink, and upon the old man’s gratitude and polite insistence, the young Count proceeded to pour his heart out to this complete stranger.

“I sympathize with your grief,” admitted the old man with a gentle clap on his shoulder, “I too was a young man once, who has had his heart broken. But life is too short to dwell on what could have been. You will learn to move on and find happiness elsewhere.”

“I am almost certain that I cannot,” Fersen lamented into his fifth, perhaps sixth, glass of whiskey. “How can I love again when every woman I see remind me of her, and yet, they will never compare to her beauty or cleverness, her generosity—her perfection?”

“I see,” the old man hummed in thought, setting down his own glass with a soft clink. “Grief might blindside you in this moment, but perhaps, a change of perspective will do you good.”

~~

 _That old man must have been a witch!_ Fersen realized furiously.

And to think that _this_ was the gratitude shown to him after paying for both of their drinks last night—which had culminated to quite the significant bill. How would being transformed into a _dog_ solve any of his problems, if not to curse him with new and unforeseen ones?

Fersen rummaged through his clothes for something, _anything_ useful at all, before unclasping his silver pocket watch from his trousers—arduously might he add, without the aid of thumbs. He then bolted down the winding streets of the small town and towards the direction of the palace, his first thought, of course, was to find Marie.

~~

The palace guards were less than pleased by the appearance of a strange dog within the golden gates of Versailles. Fersen led them in a chase across the gardens, nearly knocking into a statue of Louis XIV, before the guards finally cornered him by the hedge maze. He barked and whimpered in protest as one man grabbed him roughly by the scruff, while another crushed him against the cobblestone pavement.

The leader among the guards curled his lips in disdain as he glared coldly at the captured dog. “Get rid of it before the King finds out.”

Fersen thrashed wildly in an attempt to free himself. He was unsure of what _get rid of it_ entailed, but he wasn’t particularly keen on finding out.

“What’s going on?” demanded a calm, authoritative voice that Fersen could recognize even in his sleep. He looked up to find the Marquis de Lafayette standing over him, face utterly unreadable as the guards scrambled to show their respect.

“A dog had escaped into the gardens, Marquis. I apologize for the disruption, but you needn’t worry as the situation is well under control.”

Lafayette returned his attention to the dog in question—the striking, agate gray of his eyes piercing like steel. Pressed flush against the ground before the toe of the Marquis’ boots, the young Count couldn’t help but whimper beneath the weight of his gaze.

He and Lafayette had once shared an easy camaraderie while fighting the British in the New World. Their friendship soured, however, since their return from war, with Lafayette withdrawing into his proud, humorless self and Fersen too easily influenced by the frivolous, hedonistic lifestyle of the French nobility, a circle which the Marquis openly criticized. Their one-sided affection for the same married woman, her Majesty the Queen of France, certainly didn’t help matters either. But Fersen had never once doubted that Lafayette was a good man, a righteous man—if not to an insufferable degree. He would not stand for the abuse of any creature, not even a stray dog, and thus—with _colossal_ effort—Fersen swallowed his pride and blinked up at the Marquis, whining in the most pathetic way he could manage.

Lafayette’s stern expression softened as he knelt beside the captured animal, sliding a gloved hand along Fersen’s jaw with an unsettling amount of gentleness. Upon noticing a flash of silver, the Marquis urged the dog to unlock his jaw, eyes widening upon realizing exactly what he had found in the canine’s possession.

“This—this belongs to Count Fersen.”

Fersen blinked at Lafayette, surprised that the Frenchman could so easily recognize his pocket watch. But what else could he expect from the brilliant and astute Marquis de Lafayette, revered hero of the American Revolutionary War?

He took the opportunity to bite down on Lafayette’s sleeve, redirecting his attention with a firm tug. The Marquis furrowed his brows in confusion, before understanding flickered in those quicksilver eyes.

~~

Fersen led Lafayette to the alley where his muddied clothes lay scattered and abandoned. He located his hat and attempted to bury his dog head into it, to show the Marquis that he had, in fact, been transformed into a dog. Lafayette quickly removed the hat, and beneath his aloof exterior, Fersen could catch the storm of distress brewing. The Marquis then knelt beside the Count, urging him to remain still with a gentle, yet commanding, grip on his neck.

“We mustn’t tamper with the evidence,” he declared aloud, as if addressing Fersen directly despite believing him a dog. “I’m afraid that something terrible has happened to Count Fersen, and you might be our only witness.”

~~

The theory was absurd.

Fersen was attacked in an alley, and his kidnappers had opted to abduct his body but not his clothes, and the only witness to the crime was a black-haired, blue-eyed dog that, evidently, belonged to no one. But of course, given that _Lafayette_ was the one delivering this ridiculous sermon, his audience of the King, the Queen, and Minister Blaisdell all listened intently and took every word he spoke to heart.

(Although Fersen had to begrudgingly admit that the theory was no more ludicrous than reality, which was that he was neither abducted nor missing but was, in fact, _the dog_ the see before them.)

Marie’s eyes shone with worry as Lafayette concluded his report. Fersen ached to reach out and soothe her sorrow, but the King stepped between them as he neared, frowning down at Fersen with mistrust.

“We do not know anything about this strange dog,” the King said warily, “He might have been a stray his whole life. He might bite.”

Fersen ducked his head and withdrew, a pathetic whimper lodged in his throat. The King was right to suspect him, being none the wiser of the inconceivable situation he had found himself in. Marie was deeply upset by the disconcerting news, and Fersen truly did not wish to cause them any additional distress.

“He might not have an owner, but he is very well behaved,” Lafayette came to his defense, much to his surprise. “But for the sake of your Majesty’s peace of mind, I agree it might be best to continue this discussion without the dog.”

~~

Lafayette led him into the gardens, but without a collar or a leash, he had no means of securing Fersen to anything, to ensure that the dog wouldn’t simply run off once left to his own devices.

“Stay, please, do you know stay?” he asked, notes of fluster creeping in his voice, as the typically poised Marquis struggled to pantomime his intention to a dog.

Fersen huffed and made a show of lying on his stomach, expecting a _good boy_ or something equally nauseating.

But instead, Lafayette returned a small smile, breathing out a curt, “Thank you,” before rushing back in the direction of the King’s study.

~~

The Marquis was gone for a long time, during which Fersen fought the impulse to do dog things like chase squirrels or bark at passersby. He was beginning to doze off in his comfortable patch of sun when Lafayette finally returned, appearing equal parts surprised and relieved to find Fersen exactly where they had parted ways.

Fersen perked his ears at the approaching footsteps, but upon noticing what Lafayette had in his hand, the young Count sprang onto his paws and growled at the Marquis in outrage.

There was absolutely _no way_ he was letting Lafayette put a collar on him like— _like a dog_. 

Lafayette froze in his stride, stung by the unexpected hostility. He quickly realized the cause of the outburst, abandoning the collar and the leash on the lawn before approaching Fersen the rest of the way. Once peace between them appeared restored, Lafayette knelt beside Fersen and patted him on the head.

“I—I’ve always wanted a dog when I was a boy,” the Marquis confessed, “My father had basset hounds for hunting, but my mother was terribly allergic and would never allow any of the dogs near the house. And when my father died, my mother sent the bassets away. Then, we moved to Paris until I was of age, and the city was simply not a place to raise dogs.”

Lafayette sighed, a twinge of sad nostalgia in his voice. Fersen glared at him incredulously. Why would the Marquis _insist_ on speaking to a dog as he would to a human?

“I suppose I could have gotten a dog after the war,” he continued, “But state affairs have kept me so busy that I have no time to indulge in a companion—whether they be a human or a dog. I thought—since you are in need of a home and we are in need of your assistance in finding Count Fersen—that you could stay at my estate, with me. But why surrender boundless freedom in exchange for a lavish prison?”

Lafayette chuckled, sounding disappointed— _rejected,_ even—and Fersen wanted to _scream_. Since when did people _ask_ a dog if it would like to be their dog? They usually find a dog, bring it home, and that was the end—the dog now belonged to them! What the hell was wrong with Lafayette? The extent of his chivalry was a complete farce.

Incensed with the Frenchman, while deeply despising himself, Fersen marched pointedly to pick up the abandoned collar and leash, before flinging them in the direction of the Marquis’ face.

~~

Lafayette gave him a bath.

Fersen contented that he must be living the fantasy of countless French women, to have the prim and proper Marquis in such a relaxed state—sleeves rolled up and top collar loosened—as he lathered scented oils into Fersen’s coat with startlingly gentle hands. The mundanity of the task appeared to calm Lafayette, his iron gaze softened in concentration as his lips parted from time to time, to reveal those quiet thoughts normally locked within his aloof, reclusive mind.

Fersen had long conceded that the Marquis was a handsome man with a reputation befitting his bravery and principled ideas. Rumors foretold that he was the man that every French lady desired, and Fersen could imagine it so clearly, how any woman—even Her Majesty the Queen—could easily fall in love with him. And it would have mattered little that Fersen had loved the Queen first, loved her faithfully and ardently since the minute of their acquaintance. The young Swede was well aware of his own inadequacy, of the sweet nothings and honey-coated praise that veiled him like a cloak. He was all charm and no substance underneath, and time would have exposed cruelly—had it not already—just who exactly was the better man between him and Lafayette.

The mere thought of the other man’s success and happiness in place of his own twisted like a dagger in his already wounded pride. And as a true testament to his pettiness, his _spite_ , Fersen found himself more grateful than he had ever imagined, for Marie to have chosen neither of them in the end.

Lost in this revelation as he stepped out of the bath, and before he could fully register what he was about to do, Fersen shook the water out of his fur as any dog would, drenching the bathroom floor as well as the unsuspecting Marquis before him.

Lafayette appeared stunned as a bead of water rolled down the side of his straight, aristocratic nose.

Fersen feared that the Marquis would be angry at him for ruining his bathroom, but the Frenchman soon bursted into a laughter that punctured the silence of his quiet, empty estate. The sound was far from unpleasant, but the young Count found it uncannily out of place, to have the typically unsmiling Marquis laugh like a child unburdened.

More stupefied than relieved, Fersen committed the silver sound to memory, so that even if he were never to hear the Marquis laugh again, he could at least stow away the echo as a keepsake, hidden away to covet in secret whenever his heart would desire.

~~

Minister Blaisdell greeted them in the palace gardens the next day, smiling in his usual nonchalant manner. “Good morning, Marquis. Still burdened by the dog, I see.”

“I am not burdened,” Lafayette corrected him with a frown, “Although I do not believe this dog has an owner. I will continue to search, but until proven otherwise, I wish to keep him as a companion.”

“I never knew you were fond of dogs,” Blaisdell commented, “But I suppose this is consistent with your nature, to value loyalty in a companion.”

Fersen growled between the two Frenchmen. Blaisdell had always made him feel uneasy, the way he would grin as if hiding a secret. His devotion to King and country was perhaps one of the few sincere aspects to his character, but Fersen would still bristle at the way Blaisdell often regarded him, Lafayette, or any loyal knight to the King, as if they were pieces in an elaborate chess game—useful, valuable, but expendable when the situation demanded it.

“Do you have a name for the dog?” Blaisdell asked, smiling down at Fersen with superficial approval.

“I was thinking Georges, after George Washington,” admitted Lafayette, “But he did not take a liking to the name. And now, I am bereft of ideas.”

Blaisdell and Fersen shared a mutual look of distaste, if possible.

“Why not name him Fersen?” The Minister suggested, “Since Fersen practically acts like a dog.”

Fersen perked his ears at the mention of his name, before folding them back promptly at the accompanying insult. And just as he geared to bite Blaisdell’s ankle in indignation, Lafayette dropped a hand onto his head, unsettling his equilibrium.

“They do share the same dark hair and blue eyes,” the Marquis mused, scratching Fersen behind his ear. “But I do not wish to offend Fersen by naming a dog after him.”

 _You idiots, I am Fersen!_ The young Count wanted to scream, but all he managed was a long howl of frustration.

Lafayette knelt beside him, shushing him with soothing ruffles around his neck.

“Fersen…” he then repeated carefully, watching the canine with intense deliberation, before asking, “Do you like that name?”

Fersen did not want to give Blaisdell the satisfaction, but if he must spend the rest of his days as a dog to the Marquis, he might as well be called by his _own name_. Begrudgingly, he licked Lafayette’s hand in acceptance and felt his gut flip traitorously when Lafayette’s serious expression melted into a slow, affectionate smile.

“Fersen,” Lafayette echoed, as if trying the name on his tongue. “It’s strange because Fersen is the name of my old friend, the one whom we are searching for. I fear for his safety, but perhaps, naming you after him would bring us luck. Or at least, infuriate him enough to return to us—if only to tell me off.”

~~

Fersen was an idiot, and he truly had no one but himself to blame.

Nearly three days had passed before he realized that, while he might not be able to _speak_ as a human, he had retained all of his human knowledge and memories, so that he could certainly _write_ a message explaining his condition. Had this dawned on him sooner, Lafayette and the King would not have wasted so much time and resources on search parties, all the while believing him dead in a ditch somewhere. They would instead apprehend the old man— _the witch_ —who had transformed him into a dog in the first place.

He admitted that it would be a challenge to pen a letter without human hands, but more challenging still would be convincing the recipients that the letter was not some cruel, distasteful joke.

While the Marquis was busy with visitors the next day, Fersen snuck into his study to rummage for any quills and parchment within his reach. He knocked over a waste bin, as several crumpled pieces of paper rolled onto the floor before him. In his search for anything useable, he unfurled a sheet of parchment only to realize that it was an unsent letter addressed to Marie.

_Dearest Queen,_

_I’ve been busy with state affairs lately. Though I keep thinking of you, I am unable to find the time to contact you. Today, I finally get the chance to write, but I have so many things to say that I do not know how to begin._

_There are things that I’ve suppressed within me for ages, and have been unable to reveal to you. Today, I finally find the courage after drinking several glasses of whiskey. Perhaps this letter will never get sent, but I am no longer able to hide these feelings. Apart from respect, appreciation, and gratitude, I also_ _feel some romantic feelings towards you._

_I’ve not felt this way since I was a youth. My heart races, my soul is restless, and I am unable to control my gaze. I am even tempted to betray my principles and do something that would harm a friendship. I want to_ — _I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I should not speak of it._

_Oh, what have I written? This letter can never be sent._

The message ended there, and Fersen felt an alarming tug on his heartstrings. For all that mystery shrouding his tightly packed persona, Lafayette never truly managed to keep his affection for the Queen hidden.

Fersen had always been envious of the Marquis—of his stature and reputation, his exploits in the New World, the respect he commanded, and perhaps, most frustratingly of all, the fact that he _deserved_ every ounce of recognition he received. Lafayette was a righteous man by nature, an easy man to admire, and when their affection for the same married woman was exposed, Fersen regarded Lafayette as an adversary at best, a hypocrite at worst.

Although, in hindsight, Lafayette never truly attempted to _actively_ pursue the Queen, and this discarded letter all but proved his noble intention of suffering in silence for the sake of adhering to his principles, honoring his friendship, and preserving peace within his nation.

Fersen, of course, possessed no such grace and was rejected by Her Majesty accordingly.

But it saddened him immensely to realize now, the extent of Lafayette’s reluctant affection that tormented him so. And Fersen—so fixated on his own jealousy and selfish desires—had overlooked the misery of a man whom he had once so proudly considered a friend.

He had behaved cruelly, in fact, in souring their friendship over something the Frenchman neither wanted nor had any control over. And the past few days spent as Lafayette’s _dog_ had shown him just how kind the Marquis was, how heavy his burden as the hero of France, and how lonesome his days could be. No wonder he had longed for a companion when the opportunity arose—whether it be a homeless, unwanted dog—and Fersen realized, with a twinge of regret, that even in this matter he would sooner or later disappoint the Marquis.

The thought was simply too sad to dwell on, as Fersen resigned himself to returning the letter to its rightful place in the bin. But Lafayette entered his study then, calling out Fersen’s name in admonishment as he registered the mess he had made.

And Fersen, in a moment of panic, ended up eating the letter instead.

~~

Fersen wasn’t sure what had compelled him to approach Lafayette later that evening. The Marquis had given him is own lofty dog bed, and if he desired to, he could sleep on any of the couches and chairs downstairs. For obvious reasons, he never once attempted (or wanted) to sleep in the same room as Lafayette, and that had not been his intention either, when he noticed the soft glow of candlelight pouring from the master bedroom and decided—purely out of curiosity—to peer inside.

By the state of his undress, the Marquis was obviously preparing for sleep. It was a horrible invasion of privacy—and distantly, Fersen berated himself for it—but in that moment, he simply could not tear his eyes away. Not even in the trenches of war had he seen Lafayette out of his uniform. He didn’t even know what color his hair was beneath his wig, and he certainly would never have guessed it would be _that_ —

“Fersen,” Lafayette called out, catching him loitering stupidly by the door. “You may—uh—come in if you’d like.”

Fersen didn’t have to come in. As a dog, he shouldn’t be expected to understand any of those words. But despite that fact, he warily accepted the invitation, anyway.

“I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you,” Lafayette sighed as he rounded the bed, kneeling down before Fersen to ruffle him around his jaw, “I’ve been terribly busy, so you must’ve been terribly bored. Was that why you destroyed my study today?”

He sincerely hoped that the Marquis wasn’t anticipating an actual answer.

“You’re not like other dogs, are you?” Lafayette frowned at him. “I don’t know much about dogs but—you don’t bark at things or beg for food. You know simple tricks, but you never seem keen on playing. Destroying my study was perhaps the most _dog-like_ thing you did, and yet—I doubt it was because you were happy. Are you unhappy here?”

Again, Fersen was clueless as to how he should respond.

Lafayette took a few steps back until he sat on the edge of the bed. He gently patted the space next to him and waited for Fersen to react. The seconds ticked away as their eyes locked in a tense stalemate, long enough for the Marquis’ expectant expression to make way for disappointment.

Lafayette looked like a younger man then—a boy, even—a boy rejected by his pet.

And— _God damnit. God damn fucking everythin_ g—Fersen bemoaned as he lunged onto the bed, if only to restrain himself from ripping out his stupid, traitorous heart.

~~

Curled up against Lafayette, as the Marquis sifted through his never-ending stacks of correspondences, Fersen eventually fell asleep to the soft rustling of parchment and Lafayette’s long fingers trailing the fur on his back.

When he woke up in the middle of the night, after the candles had long been extinguished, he found the Marquis sleeping peacefully beside him, lying underneath the covers while Fersen had passed out on top. But before retiring for the night, Lafayette must have retrieved another blanket to throw over Fersen, in case he got cold in the early morning.

Fersen watched the other man for awhile longer, trying to ignore the ache twisting deep within his chest. Even without taking into consideration that he was now _a dog_ , to feel anything akin to longing for this man— _the Marquis de Lafayette_ —would be sheer stupidity on his part.

Was he so desperate that he must fall in love with any person that showed him the slightest scrap of affection? But what had his life been other than the culmination of his poor judgement, impulsive mistakes, and a foolish, broken heart?

Fersen leaned forward and licked the corner of Lafayette’s lips, the closest he could manage to a kiss. He then buried himself beneath the layers of blankets, feeling like both a coward and a fool.

~~

When morning came, Fersen awoke to unceremonious screaming and the loud thud of a body hitting the floor.

He and Lafayette would eventually learn to laugh about this, but not now. And not for a very long time.

~~

“Fersen—what the hell are you doing here!?” Lafayette shouted from across the bedroom, appearing mortified to the point of hysterics.

“What do you mean? I was sleeping,” Fersen complained groggily, before realizing that he had spoken _actual human words_. Pulse spiking with vengeance, he scrambled to sit atop the foreign bed, locking eyes finally with the horrified Marquis who had nearly backed himself into the opposite wall.

“Wait—you can see me?” Fersen demanded, his voice still sounding rough and a bit growl-y. He coughed to clear his throat and tried again. “I’m—a _person_ to you?”

“What are you doing in my bed?” Lafayette ignored his nonsensical questions, “Where are your clothes? What happened to my dog?”

“I—I _am_ your dog!” Fersen protested, feeling his ears perk and tail wag because—despite the Frenchman’s utter distress—he was simply elated to be human again.

…Or mostly human, he conceded, as he felt the vestiges of his dog form that stubbornly persisted—mainly the ears atop his head and the tail at the base of his spine. Hopefully, those too will disappear as more of his human features returned.

“Some old witch turned me into a dog,” he explained, sounding absurdly calm considering all that had transpired. “If anything, the ears and tail prove it.”

He tried to make a point of showing Lafayette his tail, but the Marquis averted his eyes, flushing to an apoplectic red. “Cover yourself, _please_!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Fersen growled, wrapping the blankets around his waist.

“So you’re telling me you were my dog _this entire time_?” Lafayette accused, even as his eyes remained furiously attached to the ceiling. “I’ve shared private, personal thoughts with you. You’ve seen me undress. You’ve licked my hand.”

Fersen had also licked his face, although he wasn’t quite keen on revealing all the details just yet—or perhaps, ever. But before he could conjure a reasonable response, Lafayette returned his attention to him, his eyes fixated on the vicinity of his collarbone, and suddenly, all the color appeared to drain from his face.

“Oh God, I put a collar on you,” he realized, aghast. “I made you play fetch.”

“It’s okay!” Fersen attempted to console the Marquis, “I mean—you thought I was a dog. I _was_ a dog.”

He reached behind his neck to unclasp the collar, tossing it aside and out of view. Lafayette still looked green around the gills, as if his noble heart simply couldn’t withstand the impropriety of this mistake.

“But even without knowing, you were…you were kind to me,” Fersen confessed, his voice lowering as he breathed out an embarrassed, little laugh. “More kind than you needed to be. More kind than what I deserved. And for that, I am grateful, my friend.”

Lafayette stared helplessly as the young Count leapt off the bed, dragging half the covers and blankets with him. “I still don’t understand what has happened,” he admitted, dazed.

“I don’t either, but aren’t you glad that I’m _alive_?” the young Count sighed with overstated exasperation. “We must tell the King right away. We must tell Marie.”

~~

By the time a spare change of clothes arrived for him, Fersen’s dog ears and tail had vanished as well, along with any shred of evidence that he had ever been a dog in the first place. Even with the honorable Marquis as his witness, convincing the King and Queen of the truth behind his disappearance was more trouble than it was worth, so Fersen resigned himself to telling a convenient and believable lie—one where he joined a few traveling nobles for a wild night of debauchery before losing track of time and place.

The King reprimanded him for his carelessness and impropriety, while Marie, despite her disappointment, could not hide the sheer relief of finding him alive and well once more. After his conference with the King and Queen, Blaisdell questioned him further in private, but Fersen had nothing more to reveal—nothing that the Minister would believe, anyway.

“Lafayette appeared quite accepting of this alibi you gave,” Blaisdell commented, sounding too casual to be sincere. “And you did arrive to the palace together.”

“I will not offend you by denying that I did not speak with him first,” Fersen responded warily. “But only to seek his help in presenting my case with as much grace as possible.”

“I did not think you would willingly seek his help.” Blaisdell arched an impressive brow. “On any matter, let alone this.”

“I admit that pride has prevented me from approaching him in the past,” Fersen said begrudgingly, “But before we were rivals, we were friends.”

“And are you friends now?” Blaisdell prodded.

“I—I hope to consider him a friend,” Fersen hesitated before answering. Surely, there was no harm in admitting _this_ to Blaisdell. “Although, you and I both know how rigid Lafayette can be with—matters like this. He will not regard me with any favor for a long time.”

It wasn’t a lie exactly, but the reason was not what he had led Blaisdell to believe. The Minister leaned back into his chair and took a long drag on his cigar, appearing appeased—or at least, enough to allow certain questions remain unaddressed.

“Don’t sound so cynical,” he eventually spoke, shrugging with an air of disinterest, “Lafayette has more on his mind than disappointment in your misconduct. Are you aware that he had a dog for a short time? He was quite fond of it, but it ran away apparently—around the time of your reappearance.”

~~

Two more weeks would pass before Fersen mustered the courage to return to Lafayette’s estate, bearing what he hoped was an acceptable gift.

“What are you—” Lafayette stammered upon finding Fersen in his drawing room—or more accurately, kneeling on the carpet of his drawing room as a rambunctious ball of black fur gnawed at his sleeves like a chew toy.

“I have a cousin in Sweden who breeds dogs as a hobby,” he explained as he gathered the puppy into his arms, pushing himself to stand so that he may speak with the Marquis at eye level. “She helped me figure out the breed of dog that—that looked like me when I was a dog. And I thought—since you are so fond of dogs—that you shouldn’t be devoid of a companion just because your last dog turned out to be a disappointment.”

“I was not disappointed by your return,” the Frenchman frowned, the jest going over his head in a typical Lafayette fashion. “Although the circumstances of your disappearance remain beyond the scope of my understanding, and I am sorry if I have treated you coldly because of it.”

“I—no, Lafayette, I’m not here because of _that_.” Fersen shook his head, biting back a reluctant smile. Everything about the Frenchman that had once frustrated him—his dullness, his frigidity—had begun to appear hopelessly endearing, and this realization weighed heavily and terrifyingly in the back of his mind. “I’ve brought you a puppy, for Christ’s sake. Lighten up, Marquis!”

“I appreciate the gesture,” Lafayette confessed with troubled politeness, “But I cannot take the responsibility of a dog, let alone a puppy. I simply do not have the time, and you of all people should realize that given—your experience here.”

“No one has the time for a puppy.” Fersen waved a dismissive hand. “Or children, or love, but that doesn’t mean people should deny themselves what would bring them the most happiness. You might not be the _perfect_ dog owner, but you will try your best to provide a comfortable and loving home, and that’ll be good enough for your puppy. For—anyone, really.”

Confidence dwindling like a snuffed out candle, Fersen tapered near the end, feeling terribly self-conscious before the other man. He swallowed audibly as the Marquis approached, his stern expression softening as he focused on the small animal between them.

“Do you mean that?” Lafayette asked, sounding unsure, as he lifted a finger for the pup to playfully chew on.

“Why would I reassure you and not mean it?” Fersen scoffed, although his words lacked any genuine vitriol. “As if people don’t already shower you with constant praise.”

Lafayette chuckled at that. “It’s still rare,” he insisted, “Coming from you.”

“You act as if my opinion holds any weight,” Fersen muttered beneath his breath. He should relinquish possession of the dog, given that he had brought her as a gift, but he wanted to keep her for a moment longer, if only to have the Marquis remain close for a moment longer.

“It holds more weight than you might realize,” Lafayette admitted absently and— _oh_ , if that didn’t stir something dangerous in Fersen’s heart. What was he even supposed to follow up with, after that? 

The Marquis must have caught himself as well, clearing his throat as he stepped away. Composure restored in a blink of an eye, he smiled at Fersen and offered a polite, “Thank you, for your thoughtful gift.” 

“May I come back?” Fersen blurted out with a contrasting lack of grace that he had absolutely no hope in disguising. “If you are willing, that is, I would like to visit—your dog. I mean—I can fill some of her time and help train her, if you truly believe you are too busy.”

Lafayette regarded him with muted surprise, and Fersen flushed even deeper, fearing that his heart had tumbled out along with his words just now. An absurd stretch of silence passed before the Marquis finally spoke, during which Fersen pondered whether death from mortification was in fact possible.

“Of course,” Lafayette responded, watching him as if looks alone could dissect him thoroughly. “If that is indeed what you wish.”

“I—I think so,” Fersen admitted, “I would like that very much.”

Lafayette nodded and then—much to the Swede's relief—smiled. “Very well. A joint custody would certainly take some of the pressure off me. Do you have a name in mind?”

“No, that honor belongs to you,” insisted the young Count, tension draining from his body at last and leaving him feeling strange and weightless. “Although I would prefer you not name her Fersen.”

The Marquis laughed as he approached once more, rubbing his chin in thought as he carefully studied the puppy. And just as Fersen felt ready to burst from his stupid, ridiculous, overflowing hope, Lafayette proceeded to suggest, “Perhaps Martha? For Martha Washington?”

**Author's Note:**

> IRL Lafayette had red hair and was a George Washington simp, I believe, hence the references :')
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated! <33 I am also iiscos on tumblr and lapin on the DUTP discord :))


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